The others were from Monty (from work), Gail (from home), Jake,
Emil, Dave, and Megan, all from their separate stations. Enough to warm the heart.
Our team was on call for the next case; in the meantime, I was finding out about the duration of Serious Crimes files. They could be wrapped up in a weekend or might drag on for years. So much depended on the availability and willingness of witnesses to testify, and of course, every case was at the mercy of the justice system with all its deferrals and loopholes. Today we learned that a case pending for over two years had been postponed again until next spring. Two Hell's Angels members were charged with a brutal homicide and second assault, and the key witness was under protection on Vancouver Island. To make sure we could count on him, two of us were to pay him a visit in the new year, and Wayne asked if my leg would be up to a trip. He said he had heard good things about my interviewing skills, at which I blushed and shrugged.
Sukhi and I used our lunch hour to work out in the detachment gym. The physiotherapist had prescribed gentle but disciplined exercises for my ankle. The rest of my body, immobilized for so long, cried out for a not-so-gentle workout. Then it cried out again when it got one.
At the end of the session, the sweat began flowing down my cheeks. Finally I had to acknowledge the tears I'd been fighting all morning. This was my first birthday without my mother. I'd been keeping her at a distance, mixing my anger at her dying with her perfectionist ways â as if that's all she was. Suddenly the full measure of the woman and how much I missed her flooded my mind and my eyes. Sukhi, ever sensitive, guessed what was happening, gave me a hug and left quietly, as I slipped into a cubicle in the bathroom, away from curious eyes.
A year ago today I was a mess. With the breakup wound still raw, I was spending work hours in a daze, then hiding under a quilt in my apartment until it was time to go to work again. My birthday happened to be a day off and Mom picked me up in the afternoon and took us both for a full treatment at a spa â facial, manicure, massage â after which we met Dad for a drink and supper at the Sylvia Hotel, followed by a movie at the Park Theatre on Cambie. Of course, doing all this with your parents instead of your boyfriend was an even worse reminder than if I had stayed home alone, out of public view. But Mom knew that with enough diversions, my attention would have to stray for a few moments from Ray, which they wouldn't do at home; every thought not of him was a healing step. The next day, she insisted I come to their place for my traditional birthday supper of favourites: cheese soufflé, curried chicken, calico bean pot, Greek salad, and cheesecake for dessert, prepared with Mom's usual excellence. Two more days down. Yesterday, when Dad asked me what time I would be finished my class tonight, I knew he had something similar planned, and that filled my tear ducts again. How he must miss her. How he never unloaded his loss on me. I tried to collect myself before emerging from the toilet stall. I splashed water on my red face and hoped the rest of the team would assume I'd had a rigourous session. Sukhi could be trusted.
After work I drove to my history class, the last of the term. For the first time ever, I was eager to hand in something I had written. The essay had practically fallen into place on its own. I asked Dad if I should cite Jane's descriptions of Extension and he said they were more historical than any other reference I was using. I scanned the pages I needed, trimmed them, blacked out personal bits, then copied and pasted them into the paper itself. I could not resist opening with the timely discovery of the Extension coal seam by Henry Hargraves on the property of Louis Strong, one of many black settlers from California invited by Sir James Douglas to the new Crown Colony. I went on to discuss how Mackie snatched it up and quickly developed the productive new mine, around which the townsite grew too fast and too shabbily. (
“The
Extension mines are rich in coal but the town has grown up without planning,
since the water is poor and scarce in summer, drainage is bad, and we live in
makeshift cottages that were moved from another used-up mine. The most lasting
feature is the coal dust covering them.”
and “â¦
coal dust everywhereâ¦at
least it has not hurt my garden where I grow potatoes, carrots, turnips, leeks,
swedes, parsnips, cress, peas, beans, tomatoes, and onions.”
) How he had to relocate his shipping wharf from Departure Bay to Ladysmith/Oyster Bay because of a property conflict for his railroad; how he encouraged Extension miners to live in Ladysmith (“â¦
live in Ladysmith where the
loading wharves for the Extension coal are located. We are 12 miles apart and
the mine trip makes three trips a day between the two towns⦔)
but many refused to move; how he dealt with two big explosions; and how dissent over low wages led to regular strikes and lockouts under his ownership. How his sale of the Extension mine was as expedient as his acquisition, selling to a larger conglomerate just before the big strike of 1912â14, which resulted in so much violence and destruction that the militia had to be called in. This was the unanimous version of history I had gathered from my research. I saved the murder of Louis Strong for the end: the smeared price tag of Extension's existence. Even without a conviction, I wanted it to be the last thing in the reader's mind.
Dad's only input was a final proofreading for typos and any glaring flaws in construction. Despite my lukewarm approach to schoolwork, the importance of grammar had been instilled in me by Mom, Dad, and especially Sara. A Grade Eight dropout by necessity, she had become a snob about educated people who still said “for him and I” and other grammatically incorrect phrases. She warned me not to marry anyone who didn't know the difference between “lie” and ”lay” and if that was asking too much, at least to make sure he was open to learning it. Ray qualified, so it wasn't the only determining factor.
Ray. What was going on with him?
His e-mail was deleted from my thoughts when I walked into Barnwell's classroom to an unexpected reception. All the students â twelve of us had stayed the course â and Barnwell himself clapped. “Welcome back, Constable Dryvynsydes. We're happy you can be with us for the last class. Today I'm just here to collect your papers and then we're going out for beer.”
Speechless and blushing, I finally mumbled my thanks before dropping my paper on Barnwell's desk and proceeding to my old seat next to Crane Reese. He was smiling wider than anyone and that embarrassed me even more. “I guess I owe you an apology for my alias.”
He kept on grinning. “That's okay. Nurse, cop, what's the difference? You're both in emergency.”
Barnwell's loud voice cut in to say the final exam would be held in this room next week. It would consist of three parts: thirty-five multiple choice questions covering early B.C. history from the Haidas to the Second World War, and two short essay questions, both with choices. “We'll meet at Squires in half an hour. First round is on me.”
Squires. How much of my past was coming back to haunt me today, when I was supposed to be meditating on the future. I didn't want to be too late for Dad's surprise supper, but did not want to ditch this group after their warm welcome. Crane Reese stood up and walked out with me. He had no car, so I offered him a ride to the bar. It was raining heavily when we got to the parking lot and we hurried into my Mazda.
“I missed you in class,” he said, once we were on our way.
“Thanks. I hope you weren't taking notes all this time.”
“Barnwell told us what happened and most of us saw it on
TV
.”
He kept staring at me as if we were reunited pen pals, but I had to keep my eyes on the road. I had driven through car washes with more visibility. Back in Burnaby, I normally checked passing cruisers to see who was on duty, but tonight I couldn't see them. Maybe I needed the first rainy day to make me completely thankful not to be out on patrol any more. Barnwell was already inside at Squires pushing tables together; I took the opportunity to thank him for setting up my own personal correspondence course.
“Happy to be of service. Have they retired you to a desk job?”
Up close, his face looked older, lightly pockmarked, yet more attractive. Maybe I was a sucker for an expression always on the verge of sarcasm. “Not quite, but they've taken me off the streets. I'm in Serious Crimes now.”
He raised an eyebrow and smiled. “You take good care of yourself.”
Crane had stepped in to set chairs around tables and I stood for a moment, noting the upgrades since my famous arrests here. The old scuffed wooden colonial chairs and round tables had been replaced by high square tables and upholstered black leather bar stools with backs. I looked to the corner where Tim Lewchuk had flung the chair, the walls a fresh caramel colour. I thought I could smell new carpet â a possibility with smoking now banned in B.C. Squires was a popular hangout, yet some owners might have let it go, mistaking shabbiness for atmosphere.
Once everyone was assembled, we drank a toast to our professor and he drank one to our futures, academic and otherwise. Crane took the stool to my left and almost immediately Marla, on my right, began asking me questions with her eyes on Crane. She was a small, intense woman who had married early, divorced recently, and was raising children while working in a school library. This course was a step toward a library technician diploma. Eventually I sat back and let them talk across me, sipping a light beer that was making me sleepy.
After an hour of this odd conversation, I said I had to be somewhere. Crane, who clearly would not be driving, had just started his third beer and pushed his chair back when I did. His gallantry was becoming too much: one coffee and one ride didn't make us a couple. I gave a collective wave to all the tables and on my way out, noted Marla taking over my stool next to Crane, climbing its rungs like a stepladder.
The rain had lessened by the time I hobbled up Dad's front steps. My leg felt heavy and sore by the end of each workday, even with the cast I usually wore when I knew I would be on my feet all day. I'd found some almost stylish orthopedic-type shoes to accommodate it, and my limp was hardly noticeable unless I was really tired.
Dad had taken his drawing supplies from the dining table and set the placemats there instead of in front of the
TV
. I washed my hands and sat down with my leg outstretched on another chair as he took two warmed plates from the oven. Porcupine meatballs in mushroom soup, mashed potatoes, canned mixed beans. A Greek salad picked up from Max's Deli was in a bowl on the table. We were both thinking the same thing, both trying not to give into it.
“A few substitutions, you'll notice. I didn't know where to start with cheese soufflé and didn't want to ruin curried chicken for you forever.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat for his sake. “Looks delicious, Dad. Porcupines are my co-favourites.”
While we were eating, I recounted the events of the day, from the birthday cake, through the e-mails to the standing ovation. Dad's face shone as if it was his birthday and in a way it was. His first milestone without her. For dessert he had bought a cheesecake from the same deli, and we both wolfed down a slab. Then he handed me two envelopes, one with a bulge. His contained a heartfelt Daughter card and a gift certificate for the works at the spa where Mom and I had gone last year. The other was a Niece card from Janetta with a smaller envelope folded up inside. On it, Sara's unmistakable strong handwriting read: “Mother's handiwork and her gift for confirmation in the Methodist Church in Wales at age 12.” Inside was a small silver bangle wrapped in a creamy lace-trimmed handkerchief. It was old hammered sterling, a genuine antique. I was already weepy thinking about Mom; now I felt dumbstruck.
“Those belonged to your great-grandmother,” Dad said softly. “Janetta was digging again in the old trunk and found them. She called last week and I told her your birthday was coming up. She feels bad she didn't find them among Mother's things earlier. In fact, she doesn't remember Mother ever mentioning it.”
I managed a low “Wow” as I stroked the fine lace border Jane Owens' hands had tatted so delicately. “The gift that keeps on giving. From Jane to Sara to Janetta and now to me. This little piece of linen has outlasted two lifetimes.”
“Three,” said Dad. “Don't forget your mother.”
At the sight of his face now collapsed in sorrow, I threw my arms around him and we indulged in long-overdue sobs. “How could I?” I snuffled. “She's been on my mind all day.”
Dad was first to recover, remembering that we hadn't drunk a toast yet. While he poured his favourite sherry, I went through the futile motions of trying to slip the small bracelet onto my big hand. I imagined it sliding up and down Jane's young, thin wrist as she ran laughing up a hill â wasn't Wales all hills? â after Sunday school on the day she received it.
Dad handed me my glass and clinking them both, he crooned: “To all the girls I've loved before. And still do.”
“Did you know it was Jane Owens' birthday today too?”
“She would qualify for that select group.”
“She's given me a present; what can I give her?”
“A moment of silence? A prayer of thanks? A word of homage.”
“For starters, maybe. But I'd like to do more, except I haven't figured out what yet.”